by Dale Brown
His dread came from the way his uncle had been treated, used and then tossed aside. Hassam had said he was too important for the country to lose, something that Kerman completely agreed with. But the image of his uncle on the pavement haunted Kerman now. If he was so valuable, why was he treated like a piece of dirt?
The general had always had his trouble with the religious leaders. Kerman had always regretted that — secretly, of course; he would not criticize his uncle to his face or even behind his back, not seriously at least, for whatever else, the general was a great man.
Perhaps, thought Kerman, his uncle had reason to denounce the clerics.
He struggled to put the idea out of his mind. It was a distraction: He had to focus on his mission.
“I will pray,” he told himself, as if chiding a small boy. “I will pray for success.”
Dreamland Command
2038
“It was the Doc’s idea. he was right,” said the photo interpreter. “Look — same pickup trucks at the airport.”
Rubeo scowled. The analysts had found a pair of pickup trucks in the region where the warhead was found — albeit miles away, and at roughly the same time that the attack was going on — in some of the shots taken by the Global Hawk as it circled away. The same truck showed up on an access to the airport at Rawalpindi.
“So it must’ve left from this airport,” said Catsman. “Have you checked the flight plans?”
“I turned that part over to the CIA. They said it could take anywhere from hours to a couple of days to get the information.”
Catsman looked up at Rubeo. He frowned again. “Days?” she asked.
“If they keep the information on a computer,” said Rubeo, “I believe we should be able to shorten the time considerably. Unless you insist on working through channels.”
“Do it,” answered the major.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett, over the Pacific Ocean
2047
“Urgent incoming message for you, Colonel, on the Dreamland channel,” said Sergeant Daly, descending from the flight deck. “They need to talk to you right away.”
Dog authorized the communication at the Flighthawk station.
“Colonel, we think we may have traced the missing warhead,” said Ray Rubeo from the Dreamland Command Center.
“I’m afraid you have to give that information to General Samson,” Dog said.
“Yes, well, Major Catsman is attempting to contact him through channels. In the meantime, I thought I would tell someone who could do something about it.”
That was, by far, the highest compliment Ray Rubeo had ever paid him.
“What’s the story, Doc?”
Rubeo explained about the pickup trucks and how they were tracked to an airport near Pakistan’s capital. A number of aircraft had taken off since, including several that were somewhat suspicious because of their registry or stated cargo.
“Apparently a popular stop for the nefarious of the world,” said Rubeo. “But there is one in particular that is interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because after flying to Malaysia, its pilot filed a new flight plan that said it was heading to McCarran International Airport. Since then, it has disappeared.”
Over the Pacific Ocean
2115
Kerman checked his watch, then undid his seat belt and walked to the back of the flight deck. The cargo area was not pressurized, but at the moment they were low enough that he did not need an oxygen mask.
The pilot could see his breath as he opened the door. A bank of overhead lights illuminated the warhead’s crate, strapped to the floor about a third of the way back.
The timer was wrapped in a towel and tucked beneath the strap. As he got down on his hands and knees to remove it, he began to shiver. He put his hands together for warmth and blew into them.
Was he shaking from cold or fear? Did he have the courage to do this?
For Allah, blessed be his name, he could do anything.
He pulled the towel out and unwrapped it carefully. His uncle’s expert, Abtin Fars, had preset the timer for exactly one hour; all he had to do was push two small toggle switches.
He pushed the first. A small LED light lit on the device, showing it was working.
As his hand touched the second switch, it began to tremble so badly that Kerman dropped the timer onto the blanket. He thought he had broken it and for a moment was overcome with grief. All his plans, his entire life, completely in vain. To fail now, so close — it was the most unimaginable disaster. He closed his eyes, cursing himself. He could have remained silent, not called the Ayatollah; his uncle would then still be here, helping him, guiding him. Together they would have carried out the mission — the general to revenge Val’s death, Kerman to fulfill God’s plan.
The pilot felt a burst of warm air flow around him. It was a draft, he knew — and yet part of him thought it was another presence, his cousin perhaps, coming to reassure him.
Or his uncle.
Kerman opened his eyes.
The light was still lit.
He turned the trigger over gently and pushed the second switch. The numbers on the display began to drain away slowly: 59:59, 59:58, 59:57…
“Thank you, Lord, thank you,” whispered Kerman, nestling the timer on the towel and tucking it beneath the strap before retreating to the cockpit.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett, over the Pacific Ocean
2115
Dog called the north American aerospace defense Command himself so they understood the situation. An air defense order had already been issued, thanks to Major Catsman, but he wanted to make sure the pilots knew that shooting down the aircraft over a populated area would be problematic — the bomb could easily be set to detonate via a barometric fuse.
His preferred solution would have been to explode an EEMWB in the plane’s vicinity. But Dreamland had used all of the weapons over India.
After talking to NORAD, Dog decided to call Samson himself over the Dreamland channel. He got one of the boneheaded lieutenants who had traveled to Diego Garcia with the general. The idiot told him that Samson was “on the line with the White House” and would probably not get back to him for a while.
“He knows about this?”
“Major Catsman already told him,” said the lieutenant. “That’s what he’s talking to the White House about.”
“You have to scramble what we have at Dreamland,” said Dog. “Get the Megafortresses and their Flighthawks up, the airborne laser—”
“I am sure that the general has it under control, Colonel.”
“Right.” Dog snapped off the line.
He’d accomplished what needed to be accomplished — Nellis was scrambling fighters. A full air alert had been issued. But it felt wrong that he wasn’t leading the charge.
Not that his personal feelings should matter.
“Colonel, Nellis Group One is on the air with us,” said Sullivan up in the copilot’s seat. “Requesting further details.”
“Well, give it to them.”
“I thought you would want to talk to them, sir.”
Dog hesitated a moment, then pushed the button to connect to the frequency the fighters were using. Nellis Group One was a two-ship of F-15 fighters sent to investigate.
“What do you have for us, Dreamland?” asked the lead pilot. “Where are these bastards?”
Dog told him what he knew.
“So where is this Airbus?” asked the F-15 jock.
“Unknown,” said Dog. “The plane filed a flight plan but since then hasn’t shown up in the international air traffic control system. We believe they were able to turn off their identifier and simply used different call signs, but we’re not clear yet. We’re working on locating it.”
“Roger that.”
Rubeo had supplied a theory about the flight plan: It had been filed so that the plane’s appearance over Las Vegas would not arouse too much suspicion. After taking off, though, the pilot had taken steps to
make it difficult to be followed, deviating from his course and probably flying through countries or ocean areas where air traffic control was not as thorough as in the U.S. and developed parts of Asia and Europe.
Dog went on the interphone to speak to Englehardt.
“Mike, we should join the search immediately,” he told him. “Launch the Flighthawks.”
“Yeah, that’s what we’re going to do, Colonel,” said Englehardt. His voice sounded a little shaky. “I was just going to suggest that.”
“You don’t have to wait for me,” Dog told him. “Do it on your own.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. You heard him guys — let’s go.”
Dreamland Command Center
2120
“How do we even know Las Vegas is really the target?” asked Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman as the video conference continued. “If I had a nuclear weapon, I would target New York City or Washington, D.C.”
“I agree,” said General Samson. “And why telegraph it?”
Rubeo scowled.
“You don’t think that’s correct, Dr. Rubeo?” said National Security Advisor Philip Freeman.
Rubeo bent to the keyboard on the computer near where he was standing.
“Admittedly a possibility. However, this is the flight data,” he said, flashing a copy of the information one of his computer geeks had hacked. “You notice the name of the pilot?”
“H-H-Habib Kerman,” said Jed Barclay.
“Kerman is related to General Mansour Sattari,” said Rubeo. “You remember General Sattari, don’t you, Jed?”
“Iranian Air Force. He led the Iranian d-d-development team, the bomb and laser, the R-R-Razor knockoff.”
“That was two years ago. What does that have to do with this?” said Hartman.
“The CIA thinks Sattari’s son was involved in th-th-the plot to provoke war between India and Pakistan,” said Jed.
Well, at least someone can connect the dots, thought Rubeo. Probably they’ll demote him out of Washington next.
“Sattari knows that Dreamland took down his facilities in Iran,” Rubeo told them. “He’s promised revenge.”
“You think too much of yourself,” snapped Samson. “He doesn’t even know where Dreamland is.”
“P-P-Plenty of reports have said it’s near Las Vegas,” said Jed. “The book the journalists did of the campaign—Razor’s Edge, h-h-hinted.”
“Combined with the flight plan, I believe it’s highly likely that it’s a target,” said Rubeo. “We’re rechecking the flight control network,” he added, choosing the much more neutral “checking” over the more descriptive, and accurate, “illegally hacking into.” “In the meantime, I suggest all flights be inspected. Sattari may have changed the ident device, or may simply fly without it.”
“Do what you need to do. Find the plane,” said President Martindale. It was the first time since the conference began that he had spoken. “Restrain it. Shoot it down over the ocean. Whatever has to be done. Do it.”
Rubeo had never met the President in person, but he’d seen him on Dreamland Command’s large screen many times. He seemed old and tired, drained by the continuing crisis. His voice was weak, almost frail, and his face pale white.
“We’re going to find it, Mr. President,” said Samson, but the others were already signing off.
Rubeo nodded to the communications specialist, signaling that he could kill the connection. Samson cut in before he did.
“Listen, Rubeo, I know we’ve had problems, but—”
“Problems doesn’t begin to express it, General.” Rubeo turned from the console. “I’ll be with the programmers hacking into the flight control networks if you need me,” he told Major Catsman as he walked toward the door.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett, over the Pacific Ocean
2122
Englehardt turned the aircraft over to the computer for the Flighthawk launch. The Megafortress tugged downward for a moment, then lifted, increasing the separation forces as the Flighthawk released and sailed off. He moved through the procedure quickly, getting the second robot off its wings, then climbed toward 50,000 feet, still moving toward Dreamland, a few hundred miles away.
It seemed to Englehardt that the alert had brought the crew back together, though he wasn’t sure how long that would last.
“Airliner contact, two hundred miles, zero-five-zero, altitude 35,000 feet,” said Rager at the airborne radar station. “Tracking. Computer IDs aircraft as a Boeing 777.”
Rager queried the plane’s friend-or-foe identifier. The aircraft came back as a United Airlines flight. Englehardt told Starship to get a visual verification anyway, and the Flighthawk pilot hopped to it.
Maybe it was some trick with his voice, Englehardt thought. Maybe he just had to speak sternly, or quickly, or maybe just not think about what he was saying. Maybe it had nothing to do with him — maybe adrenaline pushed them to do their jobs.
Whatever, the crew was definitely responding.
* * *
Dog watched Rager sort through the air traffic. There were plenty of airplanes in the vicinity, but less than a third fit the general profile of the Airbus. Each would have to be visually inspected.
“Colonel, Ray Rubeo for you,” said Sullivan.
Dog clicked into the Dreamland Command channel.
“Doc, what’s up?”
“We tracked the discrepancy in the flight plans and control system to Thailand. That seems to be where he took on a new identity. There were a number of flight plans filed that we’re not finished tracking, but there’s an aircraft passing through Mexican control over the Pacific that seems to have the wrong ID. It’s definitely an Airbus, and it’s on a course that will get it to Las Vegas.”
Rubeo began running down some of the information they had obtained. As he did, Dog saw Rager wave at him out of the corner of his eye.
“Stand by, Ray.”
“I have an Airbus 310, just now coming up to the California coast,” said Rager.
“That’s our priority. Tell Starship,” said Dog. “Get Nellis Flight One there. Now.”
Over the Pacific Ocean
2123
Kerman tightened his grip on the airliner’s control wheel. He was thirty minutes away from Las Vegas. The bomb would explode in a little more than fifty.
So close, and yet an eternity away. He throttled back, starting to slow.
Something was going on with the air controllers. They were asking aircraft to identify themselves and sending them into holding patterns back over the sea. Every plane was being queried.
Kerman ignored the request when it was his turn.
A minute passed. Another. And then another. The controller asked him to acknowledge. The man’s nervousness made his voice harsh and his words difficult to understand, though Kerman knew what he was saying.
He listened as flight control became increasingly exasperated with their failure to respond. There was a short respite, followed by a new controller calling, asking for the flight to contact him and take an immediate new course.
A few seconds later an American with a slow drawl identified himself as an interceptor pilot and told him that he was to check in with flight control and follow their guidance immediately.
Kerman realized that if the Americans were on alert, he’d never make it.
He glanced at the radar, but couldn’t see them. They must still be relatively far away.
He blew a slow breath from his lungs, trying to relax and think of what to do.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett, over the Pacific Ocean
2124
“This looks like the real thing,” said Rager. “The plane isn’t answering the ground controllers or the F-15s.”
Dog studied the display, getting his bearings. The Airbus — officially identified as Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201—had just crossed the California coast. The two Air Force F-15s were only a few minutes away; Hawk One, one of the robot Flighthawk aircraft controlled by Starship, was ma
ybe two minutes behind them.
Dog switched into the Dreamland channel. “Colonel Bastian to Dreamland Command. I need to speak to Ray Rubeo.”
“Ray’s down in the computer center, Colonel,” said Major Catsman. “I’ll switch you.”
“Wait. What I want are the warhead experts,” Dog told her. “What happens if we shoot this thing down? Is it going to explode?”
“They’re already trying to work up a simulation based on the other warhead,” said Catsman.
“We don’t need a simulation, we need an answer right now. Get everyone on the line, wherever they are. We need to know.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Dog switched over to the regular frequencies and contacted Nellis Flight One. The F-15 pilot said he was about a minute from visual range.
“What exactly are your orders?” Dog asked.
“At the moment, find and identify the plane.”
“I don’t know how much of this they’ve told you, Captain, but here’s the deal: That plane is carrying a nuclear warhead, and it may be rigged to explode in any number of ways.”
Nellis Flight One didn’t respond.
“Do you copy, Nellis Flight One?”
“Copy. We copy you, Colonel. What the hell are we going to do?”
Over California
2132
Kerman waited until the F-15s were visible over his left wing before responding.
“This is Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit. Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit. There has been a hijacking situation. We are now back in full control of the flight.”
“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, this is Nellis Flight One. Repeat your status.”
“We have overcome the hijackers,” said Kerman. He was so nervous he was almost out of breath as he spoke. But that would play in his favor. “Some injuries to crew. We have control. Two men are dead. Both are the hijackers. My navigator is critical. He may already be dead.”
“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, I want you to execute an immediate turn.”
The pilot repeated the instructions the controllers had given him earlier, telling him to go out to sea.
